


Steam and Mirrors

by thebureauisclosed (insibbegerest)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Industrial Revolution, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Anxiety, Aromantic Character(s), Asexual character(s), Asexuality, Assassination Plot(s), Crime Fighting, Depression, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Murder Mystery, Panic Attacks, Steampunk, Trans Character, Trans Feuilly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insibbegerest/pseuds/thebureauisclosed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steampunk AU. Enjolras is a half-elf detective and his current goal is to catch the serial killer who has been scaring the hell out of the poor citizens of Parisia. Will he succeed with the help of his friends and a bunch of petty criminals (including Grantaire, the good-for-nothing beggar)? What secrets will they manage to unveil?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The world this story is set in was inspired by the wonderful steampunk video game Arcanum (don't worry, it doesn't matter if you've never heard of it before). It's old as balls, but I love it to death.  
> Btw, this fic does have some ships in it, but it's mostly Les Amis-centric, every character has an important role to play.

That night, Feuilly could be seen leaving the factory earlier than was usual for him. He had asked Bossuet to take his night shift and Bossuet, being the good friend that he was, agreed. Not that Bossuet’s ideal evening was one spent in Valjean’s factory, but it was hard to say no to kind, caring Feuilly. Besides, Feuilly seldom seeked help from other people, he preferred facing his problems on his own. Or with Bahorel, his housemate. Bahorel was a great helper, especially when your problems could be solved by knocking someone’s lights out. Bahorel always knocked lights with love and passion. And considering the contempt many factory workers held Feuilly in, he got to do so rather often.

Feuilly’s heels were clicking on the pavement while he was rushing home. The click-clack noise definitely wasn’t the only sound you would hear if you walked by Feuilly’s side. This wasn’t the rich quarter where nights were peaceful and silent, oh no. The lower class never truly came alive until the sun was set. Diligent Worker Alley was swarming with individuals you wouldn’t want to cross. Aggressive orcs, intimidating ogres, ruthless humans, you would find all of them outside - drinking, cursing and fighting. 

Quarrels were a fundamental part of the nightly routine in this part of the city. The participants were usually being loudly encouraged by random spectators. Their methods included, besides other things, cheering, clapping and sometimes even throwing paving blocks. And since rows reliably attract attention of the general public, those were field days for local thieves. Suddenly, depriving someone of a coin or two became a piece of cake.

„Oi, sweetheart!“ shouted one of the ogres. „How much for one night, huh?“

Feuilly quickened his pace, ignoring the hulk of a man. In his experience, ignorance worked as the best kind of self-defense.

„Didn’t ya hear me?“ the ogre snapped at Feuilly, walking in his direction. Oh no. It seemed this one was persistent.

Feuilly fled. The ogre was taking strides of seven leagues per step, but Feuilly’s agility worked in the young man’s favour.

Feuilly arched his back and flashed through the door leading to a gnomish pub. The innkeeper came running to him and roughly grabbed him by the shoulder in an attempt to throw him out.

„You have no business here, human female! This place was built by and for gnomes!“ the man yelled.

The regulars shared his anger, some of them complained, some hurled their half-full pints at Feuilly. Fortunately Feuilly ducked in time, avoiding the flying pints. He jumped on a table to evade the reddening innkeeper who was trying to catch him. Feuilly lept across the gap between the table he stood on and the nearest open window. Before escaping the pub, Feuilly tossed several coins in the innkeeper’s direction and apologised for the damage he had caused. If the gnome gave him an answer, he wasn’t there to witness it.

Breathing heavily, he stormed into his house on Vagrant Street. He closed the door cautiously so that he wouldn’t wake Bahorel in case he was asleep. Feuilly took off his shoes, hung his jacket on the coat-stand and tiptoed into the bathroom. He washed his hands and combed his hair that had been tousled  by the autumn wind only to tie it in his ribbon again. When he headed to the kitchen to find something that would satisfy his hunger, he was caught off guard by the sight of Bahorel buttering his bread.

 His half-ogre friend raised his head and gave Feuilly an acknowledging nod, „You’re here soon,“ he remarked. „Have you had a bad day?“

Feuilly nodded. During his shift, one of his co-workers gave him an undeserved talking-to. Feuilly had learnt to endure mockery, but he was human, too, and sometimes things got too much for him. During the „bad days“, as he and Bahorel called them, one offensive word was enough to push him over the edge. He couldn’t keep working like that. Everybody’s eyes were on him, his body wouldn’t stop shaking and tears were threatening  to break from the corners of his eyes. He had to ask Bossuet to  take his shift and he ran away. The ill-mannered ogre accident did nothing to improve Feuilly’s mood. Upon hearing his „sweathearting“, an unpleasant shiver ran down his spine. _If only Bahorel was here,_ he was thinking.

But that didn’t matter anymore. He got home, to safety. Bahorel, the only person keeping him company at the moment, would never treat him ill. He was one of the few people who accepted Feuilly the way he was.

„Want to talk about it?“ Bahorel asked carefully, afraid of scaring Feuilly off.

„If you don’t mind,“ said Feuilly quietly.

„I never mind you talking to me, pal,“ Bahorel said, slapping Feuilly on the back with his enormous hand.

Feuilly gave him a half-hearted smile. „It’s because of Dahlia. She called me a disgrace, a disappointment to my whole family, she said I should wear dresses and ripped off my ribbon because apparently, tied hair isn’t... seductive and feminine enough.“

Bahorel clenched his fists in anger. „Have you told that harpy you’re not a bloody woman?“

Feuilly shook his head, „You know I hate picking quarrels. It would be pointless, people never understand.“

„How can they not get it when it’s so simple,“ Bahorel mumbled. „Do you want me to knock some sense into Dahlia‘s head?“¨

„You want the guards to pursue us again, don’t you.“

„I swear I’d be more careful this time.“

„Right,“ Feuilly smirked.

Bahorel burst into laughter, „Fine, I guess I wouldn’t. Nevermind. Look, I’ve prepared dinner for you and now I’ll be going to bed. Don’t you stay up late either, understood? By the way, wake me up early the next morning, I have some things to tell you.“

„Yes sir,“ Feuilly nodded and reached for the plate with two slabs of bread on it. Meanwhile, Bahorel left for the bedroom.

Feuilly followed his example quarter of an hour later, needing some proper sleep. He wondered what Bahorel wanted to talk about the next day? It must be important if Bahorel is willing to sacrifice his morning slumber. Bahorel worked as a watchman and often had to stay up the entire night, which was why he got used to sleeping in the daytime.

Feuilly nestled down in his warm bed, hoping tomorrow would be kinder to him.


	2. Chapter 2

„Finally, we have some time alone, darling!“ Musichetta kissed her husband’s cheek and plumped herself down on the bed. Joly watched her with a small amused smile.

„I only hope nothing serious happens... I leave the clinic for one day and, mark my words, the whole city will be taken ill with cholera. What if someone comes to harm and I won’t be there to provide my services?“

„Jollly... Don’t be paranoid! Parisia will survive one day without you,“ Musichetta giggled, „today, you have to take care of me, not your patients, as you‘ve promissed! Where is my breakfast?“

„Breakfast in bed wasn’t a part of the deal.“

„Bossuet always brings me breakfast.“

Joly faked anger, „Well then, why don’t you go to your Bossuet?“

„Bossuet is working and cannot take a day off, unlike you, my dear,“ Musichetta reminded him sweetly.

Musichetta considered herself to be a very lucky woman. She wasn’t troubled by her dark past; why keep looking back when you can look forward instead? Her parents made their living by stealing and lying, therefore it was no wonder Musichetta saw no appeal in honest work either. She wasn’t one for handiwork and got almost no education, which was why no one would employ her even if she wanted to. The idea of becoming a marriage swindler suggested itself to such a beautiful woman. Before every marriage, she changed her name and looks and she has never been exposed. Had she tried her hand on acting, the audience would reward her with defeaning applause every evening.  It only took her a few minutes to transform into someone else. If you asked her about her secret, she would tell you about the importance of minor details. Straighten up a bit, speak in a louder or softer voice, gesticulate more wildly, change the way you laugh and voilà, the transformation is finished.

However, her swindling career was threatened by an unexpected occurrence; she became fond of Joly, one of her spouses, but when she realised it, she had already been promised to another. She kept convincing herself that what she felt for Joly was nothing but a momentary infatuation and got married again, this time to Bossuet, the foreman in Valjean’s factory. Some of her days she spent with Joly, some with Bossuet. She had to come up with various excuses for her frequent leaving. Sometimes she claimed she had to visit her ill brother, at other times she pretended to be working at Mr. Mabeuf’s for a little money on the side.

 The real trouble started when she came to the realisation she had feelings for both Joly and Bossuet and that there was nothing temporary about them. And as if that was not enough, she found out the men knew each other and were actually friends! During those times, Musichetta lived in fear, knowing that her time was running out and sooner or later, something would give her away and both her beloved ones would leave her.

Then Bossuet told her he’d love to introduce her to his old friend Joly and Musichetta’s heart flew into panic mode. Whenever Bossuet suggested a possible date for their meeting, Musichetta told lies of how she was too busy.

Not long afterward, Joly brought up a similar idea, the only difference being that Joly wanted to dine not only with Musichetta and Bossuet, but also with Bossuet’s wonderful wife he hadn’t had the pleasure to meet yet! Musichetta felt like fainting. Joly wouldn‘t stop persuading her, Bossuet wouldn’t stop persuading her and it was making her head spin.

One morning, she woke up next to Bossuet. After making sure he was still asleep, she kissed his forehead and left the house. She ran all the way to the rich West District where Joly lived and worked. She walked in, but the physician was nowhere to be seen. However, she could not overlook the message placed on the bedside table. She began to read, her lips moving slightly.

 

_My dearest Musichetta,_

_I’ve noticed you keep postponing the dinner with Bossuet, although I cannot figure out why. Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite! I‘ve talked to him and we‘ve agreed today would be a lovely day for the meeting. I don’t accept any excuses! Mabeuf can clean his house on his own for once. We are waiting for you, that is me, Bossuet and his wife. The moment you find this message, please, go to the Silvervale Inn at 73 Queen Street._

_Love you now and forever,_

_Joly_

 

Musichetta felt sick. Her hands were shaking as she hid the message in the pocket of her light blue coat. So this was it, this was the end. She inhaled deeply. God, what would she do now? She was at her wit’s end. Because of her lies, she would soon lose both Joly and Bossuet and her heart would shatter into thousands pieces. She began sobbing like a baby.

When the tears ceased streaming from her eyes and her cheeks dried, she told herself hiding in the house and putting off the necessary was pointless. She faced the mirror, put on her make-up and some perfume and adjusted her hair. _If today results in a complete catastrophe,_ she thought, _at least I should look gorgeous._ She forced herself to smile and darted into the busy streets of Parisia.

Upon reaching the entrance of the Silvervale Inn, her heart was beating so violently she worried it would jump out of her chest. Then she caught a glimpse of her two husbands. They were sitting opposite each other and laughing.

Musichetta wanted to run away, but Bossuet waved at her with a wide smile and she knew her fate was sealed. She took several faltering steps towards the men and sat down next to Bossuet. She didn’t dare look him or Joly in the eye, examining the floor instead.

„You’re here, finally!“ Bossuet placed a kiss in Musichetta’s hair. She pulled away without a word of explanation. _This was the last time he kissed you, Musichetta, you better cherish the memory._

Bossuet cleared his throat and grinned at Joly, „Dear Joly, this is Musichetta, my beautiful wife.“

Musichetta lifted her eyes from the ground, shame written in her face. To her surprise, Joly looked at her and _smirked. „_ Hello there, Mrs. Bossuet,“ he said, holding out his hand.

Musichetta stared at him in confusion, unable to speak.

Bossuet and Joly dissolved into laughter at the same moment.

„Oh god,“ Joly was gasping for breath, „your face!“

„Joly, I... why are you laughing, don’t you understand? I am married to Bossuet!“

„You know, sweetheart,“ said Joly softly, „when you happen to be sharing your wife with one of your closest friends, it is hard not to notice.“

„You... you knew?“ Musichetta gaped at him.

„Of course,“ nodded Joly, „and so did Bossuet.“

„And you don’t hate me?“

Bossuet was trying to console her, „Not at all. Look, Chetta... Do you care about me?“

„Yes,“ she whispered.

„See, that’s enough for me. Just because you love Joly doesn’t mean you couldn’t love me, too. If your heart is big enough for two, so be it.“

„Exactly,“ Joly agreed. „We wanted to tell you we know about your secret and we still want to be with you. The only thing that changes for you is that you won’t have to pretend you’re visiting your imaginary ill brother.“

As Musichetta flung her arms around Joly’s neck, she managed to knock over Bossuet’s pint, but he didn’t seem to mind.

That day, Musichetta officially became the wife of two men.

This day she wanted to spend with Joly and tomorrow with Bossuet. Joly, a renowned Parisian doctor, rarely took days off, but Musichetta had convinced him. If she fluttered her long eyelashes at you, you would give her the Moon.

And so Joly eventually brought her the breakfast to bed despite his protests.

„See, it wasn’t that difficult,“ Musichetta winked, sat up and ruffled Joly’s hair, coal black as hers, but nowhere near as thick and unruly.

Sometimes when the two were walking down the street hand in hand, the ocassional passer-by pointed their finger at the odd couple. Thing is, Joly was a gnome. Gnomes weren’t too different from humans except for their size. Joly was qute tall for a gnome, but Musichetta was still slightly taller. Some people thought they looked hilarious together, but Joly ignored them. He knew everyone was jealous of his beautiful wife.

Joly sat down next to Musichetta in order to steal food from her plate. It was a lovely morning.

The problem with lovely mornings is that they usually don’t last too long.

„Doctor, doctor!“ someone outside yelled.

Joly reluctantly got out of the comfortable bed. „And you said Parisia would survive without me,“ he grumled and opened the window. „What is wrong, boy?“

„Chancellor Lamarque is dying!“

It took Joly a few seconds to recover from the shock. He wrapped himself up in his coat and hurried out, not bothering to change his slippers for proper shoes. Musichetta followed him.

 

xxx

 

„Bahorel! Feuilly! Please, open the door!“

Bahorel wiped his mouth with a napkin and rose up from the chair. Who had the nerve to disturb him when he was having lunch? What could be so important? It had better be worth it.

„What?“ he said instead of a greeting as he opened the door, but the moment he saw the young black-haired woman, the frown fell from his face. „Musichetta? What are you doing here? Has Bossuet sent you?“

Musichetta shook her head, „No, not Bossuet, Enjolras has. Where is Feuilly?“

„At the factory. Wait, Enjolras? What does he want?“

„An important meeting will be held tomorrow, he wants all his friends to show up.“

Oh no, nothing good ever came from Enjolras‘ special meetings. „Musichetta... What’s going on?“

„Lamarque was killed,“ said Musichetta. „When Feuilly returns, tell him Enjolras will be expecting you outside his office tomorrow at noon.“

„At noon? So early? When am I supposed to sleep?“ Bahorel protested, but Musichetta wasn’t there anymore, she had slammed the door shut as soon as she finished talking. She was in a hurry, Enjolras had probably asked her to notify all of his friends. As if he couldn’t deal with it himself.

It took a while for the realisation to sink in. _Lamarque was murdered._ Bahorel stiffened when he understood what it would mean for him and other non-humans and half-breeds. Lamarque, the (now former) chancellor of Parisia, was the best representative the citizens could ask for. He would most likely be replaced by his deputy, Babet, whose policy strongly favoured the good of humans to the detriment of other Parisians. Moreover, he believed women should be depraved of their right to study at the local university, because „God created women so that they would take care of their children and husbands; they weren’t made for thinking“.

Lamarque, tolerant and kind, was Babet’s opposite. His people loved him, with the exception of racists and extremists. Bahorel and all his friends highly respected the man, especially Enjolras did. Babet once suggested that all non-humans be banished from Parisia, with the possible exception of gnomes, whose culture and looks were similar enough. Lamarque immediately rejected the proposal. Not long after, a group of enraged orcs began plotting a scheme to kidnap Babet and stone him to death and if it weren’t for Babet’s guards, they might have succeeded. In spite of this scary experience, or perhaps because of it, Babet didn’t withdraw. On the contrary, his plans and politics became even more aggressive and discriminatory than they had ever been.

„If that arsehole drove out all half-breeds, Parisia would be empty,“ Bahorel muttered to himself.

He fished out the pocket watch Feuilly had given him as a birthday present. It would take many hours for Feuilly to return from work, which meant Bahorel could lie down and take a long nap. He smiled and curled up under the blankets.

Minutes and hours had passed before Bahorel was woken up by the creaking of the door. Bahorel frowned. He hasn’t slept that long, evening hasn’t come yet. How could it be his friend arrived so early?

One look at Feuilly’s miserable face was enough of an answer. Feuilly gave the impression of always being calm, but Bahorel knew that inside, he was a bundle of nerves. Which could be expected, after all, his life was anything but easy. As a man living in a woman’s body, he was often ridiculed and misunderstood. He didn’t even try to correct his colleagues who called him a „miss“ or reproached him for not behaving like a lady. Feuilly’s favourite insult was that no one would ever marry him if he continued living like this – it never occured to them he wasn’t interested in finding a significant other anyway.

Most of the time, Feuilly took the mocking bravely. But not during the _bad days._

When a bad day came, Feuilly’s otherwise balanced mind was seized with panic. His breathing became heavy, his heart beat too fast and he wouldn’t stop shaking. Bahorel despised the society that could be so hateful towards his best friend as to raise such feelings of despair in him.

Feuilly, standing on the doorsill, was shivering, but other than that, he seemed quite calm. Joly claimed those fits were stress induced and not actually dangerous. He also recommended Feuilly to rest and drink a lot of water whenever the anxiety took control. Bahorel saw it as his duty to be Feuilly’s helping hand and always stand by him.

 „You’ve returned early,“ said Bahorel. „Bad day?“

Feuilly began to speak and Bahorel listened. He thought he’d have to pay a not-so-friendly visit to that bitch Dahlia. He talked to Feuilly, made a few stupid jokes and felt instant relief upon seeing the smile on his friend’s face.

It occured to him he didn’t pass on Enjolras‘ message, but that could wait until morning. Screw Enjolras, some things were more important than politics. 


	3. Chapter 3

Joly bent down over Lamarque’s bloodied body. The man’s breathing was ragged, his remaining time could be counted in minutes. Joly ripped his shirt open, exposing the gunshot wound. The shooter’s aim was precise, he knew where to shoot so that his victim would have no chance of survival.

Joly’s eyes met Enjolras‘. „I’m sorry,“ said the doctor.

„There must be a way to save him!“ shouted Enjolras, his gaze flitting from Joly to the dying chancellor.

Joly only shook his head.

Courfeyrac, crouched between Joly and Enjolras, looked up at their leader, probably seeking help. Enjolras always knew what to do, after all.

Except for now. Enjolras was overtaken by helplessness and his eyes were glistening. Enjolras, a freelance investigator and activist, rarely shed tears that were induced by sadness and not rage. Not that Enjolras was heartless; he only saw the world differently than most people. He flew into rage over things others couldn’t care less about and he ignored matters that would make a grown man weep.

„Chancellor, can you hear me?“ asked Enjolras quietly.

Chancellor Lamarque raised his head with great difficulty and nodded.

„Who did this to you?“

„That... does not matter,“ Lamarque panted.

„It doesn’t?“ Enjolras cried out. „The monster must be arrested!“

Joly put his hand on Enjolras‘ shoulder in a vain attempt to comfort his upset friend.

„Enjolras, please... don’t try to track down my killer,“ said Lamarque, „else you could end up like me.“

„I’m sorry, chancellor, but I can’t stay idle, it is against my nature. Tell me who shot you and I will ensure that they are punished.“ Coming from Enjolras‘ mouth, the word _punished_ sounded like a death sentence.

Lamarque half-smiled, „Why do you enjoy staring danger in the face so much, boy? Do not concern yourself with something,“ Lamarque paused to take a breath, „you cannot change.“

„I will find the one who did this,“ said Enjolras defiantly, „I swear it. Do you hear me?“

But the chancellor didn’t hear him. He didn’t hear anything and he never would again. Joly looked at his watch to determine the exact date of death. Then he got up to his feet, reaching his hand out to Enjolras to help him stand up. Enjolras, however, ignored the gesture, his gaze still fixed on Lamarque’s lifeless body.

„Enjolras,“ said Joly softly, „Lamarque is dead. Let’s get out of here, the city guard is on its way and...“

„The city guard,“ Enjolras repeated with contempt, „consists of fools who care about their bank accounts more than they do about justice. They wouldn‘t solve anything. I am an investigator, Joly, I will take matters into my own hands.“

„You will not, young man,“ a response could be heard from behind them. Joly turned around and saw a familiar member of the city guard he could identify as Javert , commander who wasn’t exactly ablaze with love for Enjolras. Javert blamed him for disrespecting the law and bending it to his will.

„What has happened here?“ Javert asked

„Why do you care,“ Enjolras retorted, „you should have arrived sooner instead of taking your time and finishing your coffee at the station.“

„How dare you! Don’t you realise who you are talking to?“

In that moment, Combeferre appeared next to them after having fought his way through the crowd of confused citizens. He apologised to a woman he accidentally elbowed and took a stand between Enjolras and Javert.

„Enjolras, you aren’t helping anything,“ Combeferre said. „Please tell the commander what you know.“

„Thank you,“ Javert nodded at him.

Enjolras' expression was that of a man who had been forced to swallow three lemons at once, but he talked, „My office is located, as you know, not far from here. A while ago Courfeyrac knocked on my door, told me he could hear someone screaming and asked me to go to the square with him. So I did. When we arrived, chancellor had been already shot and lying on the ground and the people were gathering to see what was going on. I've been told there had been no witnesses. The chancellor was found by a woman who then panicked and started to scream and Courfeyrac heard her. That's all I know.“

„Doctor,“ Javert said to Joly, „what can you tell me?“

„The wound isn't blackened with gunpowder and its shape is regular, which suggests Lamarque was shot from distance. The shooter was probably experienced.“

Javert nodded thoughtfully, „Thank you, that will be all. Now I must ask you and your friends to leave the crime scene.“

Enjolras set his jaw stubbornly, but to everyone's relief, he obeyed. His gaze fell on Musichetta who was standing aside silently. He hadn't even noticed her presence before, as he had been too busy frowning at Javert. „Musichetta?“

Musichetta looked surprised as though she wouldn't expect Enjolras to remember her name, „Yes?“

„May I ask something of you?“ he said politely. It was almost terrifying how quickly Enjolras could switch moods.

„Depends. What do you need?“

„I need you to pass a message on to Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly. Please, tell them to meet me at my office tomorrow at noon, there will be a special meeting.“

„Okay, I can do that,“ said Musichetta, gave Joly a quick goodbye kiss and disappeared.

Joly stared after her with a tender smile.

 

xxx

 

Joly, Enjolras and his two right-hand men stood in front of the door to Enjolras‘ office. Joly knew the place well, his clinic was situated in the neighbouring house, after all. Unlike Joly, Enjolras also lived at his workplace, which was why his office looked so cosy and welcoming – it was his home.

While waiting for Enjolras to find his keys, Joly was looking around the unusually quiet street. Joly supposed most of the citizens were either working or sleeping. He did spot one stranger though; it was a beggar who has lately found delight in lounging about in front of Joly’s clinic. His hand was injured. It would be impolite to gape, so Joly couldn’t take a closer look to determine the extent of the injury, but it seemed to be an old wound that wouldn’t get better anymore. At least some of the man’s fingers were missing. 

Nothing could succeed at making a doctor feel horrible like a living reminder they are not almighty and cannot manage to protect everyone from harm could. Joly felt as if the beggar was sitting at his clinic only to mock him. _Look at me, doctor! What good is your degree, what good are all the smelly ointments crammed in your cabinet, huh? You can’t magically create new fingers for me anyway._

When the poor man noticed the approaching group of friends, he smirked. „Good afternoon, gentlemen. Charity for a wretched soul?“ To demonstrate his ‚wretchedness‘ he waved his hurt hand at them.

Enjolras, a man whose heart was filled with goodness just as it was filled with rage, threw several coins in his direction. His opinion was that the homeless should do their best to put themselves together and not give up, but at the same time, he was aware few people were fortunate enough to have been born into a rich family such as he. The system was responsible for all the lives that were being destroyed by poverty and misery. Enjolras sympathised with the lower class and although he’d prefer helping them by staging a coup d'état, sometimes he gave out a little of his money when dirty hands were reaching out for him and sad eyes were pleading him. This was about the third or fourth time Enjolras gave charity to this particular beggar, Joly noticed.

The man picked up the coins and as his eyes darted up to Enjolras, he smiled. He didn’t meet Enjolras‘ gaze though, the detective had turned his back to him already.

Enjolras unlocked to door leading to his office and invited his friends inside.

Joly sat down on the sofa along with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Only Enjolras stayed on his feet, pacing around the room nervously and frowning.

„Wearing a hole in your carpet won’t help you, you know,“ Courfeyrac pointed out.

„I am trying to figure this whole thing out.“

„You’re not figuring out, you’re freaking out. Look, how you leave the whole figuring out thing until tomorrow? You should take some rest now, today wasn’t easy for you... Am I right, Joly?“

Enjolras shot a warning look at Joly, his eyes narrowing, but Joly paid him no attention, „Right as ever, Courf.“

Courfeyrac grinned with satisfaction.

„I think it was Babet,“ said Enjolras, „he wanted to get rid of Lamarque so that he could replace him at his post. It makes sense, doesn’t it?“

„But we don’t even know if Babet will be elected,“ Combeferre said. „Many people would rather see Valjean as their new chancellor.“

„Don’t be naive, my friend,“ Enjolras snorted, „Babet has bought off almost everyone in this city by now. Would you believe he has been bribing orcs? They live in horrible conditions and Babet buys their votes in exchange for a bottle of alcohol. He pretends to be their friend, but if he is elected, he will continue exploiting them like he had before this bribing campaign of his. The deputy is a monster who would do anything to achieve his goals.“

„But murdering Lamarque?“ Combeferre shook his head.

„Someone did kill Lamarque,“ Enjolras said, „and you have to admit Babet will benefit from his death.“

„I agree with Joly and Courfeyrac,“ said Combeferre, „you should rest, today has been difficult. You aren’t making sense.“

„Perhaps you are right,“ Enjolras conceded and sank into his favourite armchair. „I just... don’t understand. Lamarque spent his life trying to help others, he didn’t deserve this. Why can’t we live in a world where violence is nothing but a word?“

„This is reality, not a fairytle,“ Combeferre replied, walked over to Enjolras and draped a blanket over the pouting ball of righteous anger. „But we will do all that is in our power to bring the fairytale to life. Only not today.“

Enjolras remained silent, his expression grim.

Joly sighed. If only Enjolras was wrong, if only Parisia wasn’t as corrupt a city as he thought and Valjean would become the next chancellor. Would Babet be capable of shooting Lamarque? Or was he murdered for reasons other than greed for power?

When Joly looked out of the window, the beggar was still sitting on the pavement. The long fingers of his healthy hand were toying with a coin. He was staring into distance, his eyes strangely unfocused and empty, a bit like Enjolras‘. Joly doubted the beggar was mourning the chancellor’s death though, he didn’t appear the type to care about politics. Only god knew the reason for his sombre mood, Joly thought.


End file.
